


Utsutsu No Yume

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Utsutsu No Yume [1]
Category: Tokyo Mew Mew
Genre: Alien/Mew Mew Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Continuation, Childhood Friends, Dreams and Nightmares, Implied Relationships, Multi, References to Manga/Anime, passing of time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 23:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16901856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: They all have dreams.





	Utsutsu No Yume

**Author's Note:**

> Utsutsu No Yume: Japanese for "dream of reality".
> 
> Another old piece that has been hanging around in my files for a while. Originally the prologue for a more involved series, I may consider posting more if this gets positive feedback. The time lapse is about six years from the end of the series.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Tokyo Mew Mew franchise; I'm just planning in the creators' sandbox. Please enjoy. :)

They all have dreams.

***

Mint dreams of the stage: of light raining pale rays upon her, following in her stride as she executes the intricate steps of a routine practiced for days and weeks and months until it was perfected. She dreams of lace and tulle; of satin ribbons intersecting a delicate path up her legs, ankle to knee. She dreams of music, of the violin and harp. She dreams of each harmonious strand guiding her in the dance: partner unseen, unnoticed, but so very real to her. 

She dreams of roses littering a path at her feet, of applause filling the space around her. She dreams of one pair of eyes, distinct from the rest in their piercing grey gaze, holding her a willing captive. She dreams of violet strands of silk framing elegant porcelain features. She dreams of perfection, crafted not from her own body, not from rehearsed dance steps, but displayed in every flawless detail of one solitary being. She dreams of the one for whom she dances, for whom she smiles, for whom she flies.

_Well done, my little bird._

She dreams of Zakuro. She dreams of Zakuro’s smile.

***

Zakuro dreams of places far from the bustling streets of Tokyo: of the quiet little café in Paris, of the seaside shore in America, of the fish markets in Vietnam, of the little girl in Prague who sold her flowers, blue violets, with a shy smile of adoration. She dreams of the places she has been, far too many to properly recall. She dreams of the quiet corners and hidden treasures that took her in with welcoming arms, tucked her close, and kept her safe. Safe from the world. Safe in her solitude.

She dreams of returning to each and every one of those safe places. She dreams of not going alone, this time. She dreams of large chestnut-brown eyes, wide, astonished, awed and inspired, taking every breath of beauty untold in. She dreams of soft, dainty hands taking hold of her arm, clinging with childish delight.

_Onee-sama. It’s so beautiful, onee-sama!_

She dreams of Mint’s happiness.

***

Pudding’s dreams are never confined to sleep, to those rare hours when she collapses into the embrace of pillows and soft sheets and fades into the welcoming realm of unconscious. Her dreams are contained in a large box on her dresser. It’s the first thing she sees in morning light, and the last thing she sees before closing her eyes at night. 

The box itself holds no particular significance; she bought it at a street market last year. The box means little, but she doesn’t think less of it. It holds her dreams, her hopes, her wishes and deepest desires, all in the form of little candy drops.

She collects these candy drops from places with special memories. Two from a summer vacation she takes with all five siblings in tow. Five from her thirteenth birthday, one for each of the girls responsible for organizing and throwing the best party of her life, and one for herself with a quiet prayer of thanks for such dear friends. And one for each year that passes.

_What’s this?_

_It’s a candy drop. Because you’re my friend._

Tonight, she pulls another candy drop from her pocket, places it carefully inside with the rest, and closes the lid. Then she sets a tiny kiss to smooth, polished wood, and she says another prayer.

_Be safe tonight, my friend. My Taru-Taru._

***

Ichigo sleeps little, these days. She escapes the world of dreams by throwing herself into work, into school, into late-night runs through the park. She forces herself onward, day after day, with sweet smiles and kind words. She is no longer the bubbly child of thirteen, but her heart has neither hardened nor lost its compassion. She still loves. She loves her family. She loves her friends just a little bit more, because they know her, and there are no pretenses or facades to wear in their presence. She loves the Earth. And so she forces herself to stay awake, to continue loving and living.

But her body needs rest. Her mind needs sleep. And though she fights both mind and body, day after day, there are times when they win. And she finally sleeps.

When she sleeps, she dreams, but she dreams terrible things. She dreams of golden eyes, piercing in their sadness, glimmering with tears unshed. _Why? Why can’t you just love me?_ She dreams of a body lying in her arms, heavy, cold. She dreams of blood. Blood on her hands, on her clothes. Blood everywhere.

_I guess I was lucky to have this time with you._

In dreams, she watches herself. She watches her arms pull him close, support him with her own weight because, maybe, if she holds him near enough, her strength and her energy will pour into him and he will live. Maybe, if she holds him to her heart, he won’t die. Maybe, in these last moments, after all this time, after all the fighting and anger and frustration and confusion and rejection, she’ll suddenly love him, and her love will save him. Maybe. _Maybe. Maybe…_

But it doesn’t. The fairytale fails her. Love does not save him.

 _I love you, Ichigo._ And then he’s gone. Limp, heavy, cold, dead.

In dreams, she watches herself scream. Scream him name to the heavens, pleading some higher power to give him back. She watches the tears stream down her cheeks, as her cries go unheard and prayers go unanswered. She watches her arms pull him tight, tight to her chest, and bury her face in his neck. His blood smears, thick and cold. In dreams, she feels it. Feels it clinging to her skin, to her hair, everywhere. A cold, heavy weight; a brutal reminder of her weakness, her ignorance, and her greatest failure.

In dreams, she watches herself draw back. Her hand cups his head, gently, tenderly, with far greater kindness in death than she ever showed him in life. She watches as her lips press to his, finally unafraid, unashamed. She watches herself kiss him, now that it’s too late.

She always wakes up crying real tears, warm and salty paths down her cheeks. On the worst nights, she’s still screaming his name.

***

Retasu takes time from her days—days filled with work, with school, with looking after a little brother very involved in school and sports and everything—to sleep, and to dream. In her dreams, she creates a new world, new memories. She creates a life in which there was never a war, never a battle with misguided visions and tragedy etched in its very conception. She creates memories without fighting, where friends were always friends and never enemies. 

But sometimes she dreams of reality, of the way things were, of the memories that are true and not created by her wanting imagination.

In those dreams, she sees eyes, the color of a storm-tossed sky, glaring into her own. His is a gaze that dares her to keep trying, to keep fighting, to never accept defeat even when it is inevitable. His eyes dare her to try and reach him, to continually hope, to persist in pressing her hands deep, _deep_ into the soil of his heart and soul, and dig until she finds even the tiniest promise of good, of kindness, of gentleness.

She does. She always did.

_If we had been born in a different era…_

Those are so often the words to stir her from dreams; not roughly, not violently, but gently. From dreams to a somber reality, she wakes, and she lies in bed. She stares out the window, through the curtains she never closes, and looks to the stars.

_We could have, Pai-san. I know we could have._

***

They all have dreams. Some are more real than others.


End file.
